by David Weber
“Very well,” he grated, placing one hand on the message upon his blotter, “I want to know how this happened.”
Frenaur cleared his throat. He hadn’t visited Malagor in half a year, but he’d read the semaphore messages to Vroxhan and additional, personal ones from Under-Bishop Shendar in Malgos, the Malagoran capital. He wasn’t certain he believed what they reported, but if even a tenth of them were true…
“Holiness, I’m not certain,” he said at last. “Father Uriad led the Guard against the heretics as the Circle directed, and for almost a moon he met with total success. There was no resistance until they reached the northern Shalokars and the heretics fortified a pass. He moved against them and—” He broke off and shrugged helplessly. “Holiness, the Guardsmen who fled all insist they saw something, and their descriptions certainly tally with the heretic Stomald’s descriptions of his ‘angels.’ ”
“Angels?” Vroxhan spat. “Angels who kill a consecrated priest?”
“I didn’t say it was an angel, Holiness.” Frenaur managed not to retreat. “I said it matched Stomald’s descriptions. And whatever it was, it protected the heretics with powers which were far more than mortal.”
“Assuming the cowards who fled aren’t lying in fear of Mother Church’s wrath,” Vroxhan snarled, and Marshal Rokas stirred at Frenaur’s side.
“Holiness,” the grizzled veteran’s rough voice was deferential but unafraid, “Captain-General Yorkan reports the same thing. I know Yorkan. I would know if his report was an attempt to cover himself.” The grim old warrior met his master’s eyes, and Vroxhan glowered for a moment, then sighed.
“Very well,” he said heavily, “I must accept their story when all of them agree. But whatever that … thing was, it was no angel! We didn’t come through the Trial only to have angels suddenly appear to tell us we all stand in doctrinal error! If that were the case, the Voice wouldn’t have saved us.”
Frenaur bit his tongue. Wisdom suggested this was no time to mention the irregularity of the Trial’s liturgy. And, he thought unhappily, far less was it a time to point out that Stomald had never claimed his “angels” had said anything at all, much less condemned the Church for error. Besides, the mere fact that they’d had dealings with the Valley of the Damned proved they couldn’t be angels … didn’t it?
“Yet whatever happened, it’s deprived us of over twenty thousand Guardsmen,” Vroxhan continued grimly.
“It has, Holiness,” Rokas agreed. “Worse, we’ve lost their equipment, as well. The heretics have gained their weapons, including their entire artillery train … and their position divides our strength.”
Vroxhan looked like a man drinking sour milk, but he nodded. There might even have been a glimmer of respect in his eyes for Rokas’ unflinching admission, and he pinched the bridge of his nose while he thought.
“In that case, Marshal,” he said finally, “we shall just have to call forth a greater host. There can be no compromise with the heretical—especially not when they now possess such strength of arms.” He turned cold eyes upon Frenaur. “How widely has this heresy spread?”
“Widely,” Frenaur confessed. “Before … whatever happened, there were only some few thousand, mostly peasant villagers from the Shalokars. Now word of the ‘miracle’ is spreading like wildfire. It’s even reached beyond the Thirgan Gap to Vral. God only knows how many people have flocked to Stomald’s standard by now, but the signs are bad. Messages indicate entire villages are streaming north to join ‘the Army of the Angels.’ ”
Vroxhan scowled at him for a moment, then shrugged.
“I know it’s not your fault.” He sighed, and the bishop relaxed. “You’re simply in range of my ill humor and fear.” His mouth tightened. “And I am afraid, Brothers. Malagor has always been prone to schism, and this comes too close upon the Trial. The vile powers of the valley have awakened to the defeat of the Greater Demons. Perhaps still more of the unclean star spawn wait to smite us—the Writ says there are many Demons—and they use these lesser evil spirits to divide us before they assail us yet again.”
He brooded down at his desk, then straightened his shoulders.
“Lord Marshal, you will summon the Great Host of Mother Church to Holy War.” Rokas bowed, and Frenaur bit his lip. The full Host had not been summoned since the Schismatic Wars themselves. “But we must prepare our men to withstand demonic deceit before we offer battle,” Vroxhan continued heavily, “and I fear much of Malagor will go over to the heretics before we are ready.”
He looked up at Frenaur’s unhappy face, and his angry eyes softened.
“The same would be true anywhere, Frenaur. The common folk are ill-equipped to judge such matters, and when their own priests lead them astray it’s hardly their fault that they believe. Yet be that as it may, those who embrace heresy must pay heresy’s price.” He returned his eyes to the marshal. “I do not yet wish to summon the secular lords to your banner, Rokas, but even if we rely solely on the Guard, we must first send priests among them, preaching the truth of what’s happened lest we lose still more troops to panic and spiritual seduction. Do you agree?”
“I do, Holiness, but I must urge caution lest we delay overlong.”
“What do you mean, ‘overlong’?”
“Holiness, Malagor has always been difficult to invade, and its position divides our forces. Worse, my own reports indicate the heretics are as inflamed by what they see as foreign control as by whatever other seeds the demons may have sown.”
Rokas watched Vroxhan with care and was relieved when the high priest gave a slow nod. Before the Schismatic Wars, Malagor had been strong enough to give even Mother Church pause. Indeed, the traditional Malagoran restlessness under the Tenets’ restrictions had helped fuel the Great Schism, and the Inner Circle of the time, already engaged upon a life-or-death struggle with the Schismatics, had used the wars to break the princedom. Prince Uroba, Malagor’s present “ruler,” was the Temple’s pensioner—a drunkard sustained in power not by birth or merit but by the pikes of the Guard—and his people knew it.
“Our forces west of Malagor are weak,” Rokas went on. “We have perhaps forty thousand Guardsmen in Doras, Kyhyra, Cherist, and Showmah, but less than five thousand in Sardua and Thirgan, and the heresy has spread more quickly to the west than to the east. Indeed, I fear the Guard’s strength may be hard pressed to prevent more of the common folk from joining the heresy in those regions. More, the semaphore chains across Malagor will soon fall into heretic hands, depriving us of direct communications. We will have to send messages by semaphore to Arwah and thence by ship to Darwan for relay through Alwa via the Qwelth Gap chain. Such a delay will make it all but impossible to coordinate closely between our forces east and west of Malagor.”
He paused until Vroxhan nodded once more, then went on in measured tones.
“The Guard’s total strength west of Malagor is, as I say, perhaps forty-five to fifty thousand. Here in the east, the Temple can summon five times that many Guardsmen if we strip our garrisons to the bone. For more than that, we would require a general levy, yet, as you, I prefer not to rely upon the secular lords’ troops—not, at least, until we’ve won at least one victory and so proved these ‘angels’ are, in fact, demons.”
He paused again, and again Vroxhan nodded, this time impatiently.
“The only practical routes for armies into or out of Malagor are the Thirgan Gap and the Keldark Valley. The gap is broader, but its approaches are dotted with powerful fortresses which the heretics may well secure before we can move. Given those facts and our weakness in the west, I would recommend massing the western Guard south of the Cherist Mountains around Vral. In that position, they can both seal the Thirgan Gap and maintain civil control.”
Rokas began to pace, tugging at his jaw as he marshaled words like companies of pikes.
“Our major strength lies in the east, and with the gap secured we may concentrate in Keldark, using the Guardsmen of Keldark to block the valley against her
etical sorties until we’re ready. The valley is bad terrain and even narrower than the gap, but most of its fortresses were razed after the Schismatic Wars. There are perhaps three places the heretics might choose to stand: Yortown, Erastor, and Baricon. All are powerful defensive positions; the cost of taking any of them will be high.”
He made a wry face. “There won’t be much strategy involved until we actually break into Malagor, Holiness, not with such limited approach routes, but the same applies to the heretics. And, unlike us, they must equip and train their forces. If we strike quickly, we may well clear the entire valley before they can prepare.”
“I agree,” Vroxhan said after a moment’s thought. “And it will, indeed, be best to move from the east. If they can strike before we prepare, they’ll move east, directly for the Temple.”
“That was my own thought,” Rokas agreed.
“In the meantime,” Vroxhan returned to Frenaur, “I see no choice but to place Malagor under Interdict. Please see to the proclamation.”
“I will,” Frenaur agreed unhappily. What must be must be.
“Understand me, Brothers,” Vroxhan said very quietly. “There will be no compromise with heresy. Mother Church’s sword has been drawn; it will not be sheathed while a single heretic lives.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Robert Stevens—no longer “the Reverend”—watched the broadcast with hating eyes. Bishop Francine Hilgemann stared out over her congregation from a carven pulpit, and her soft, clear voice was passionate.
“Brothers and sisters, violence is no answer to fear. Perhaps some souls are mistaken, but the Church cannot and will not condone those who defy a loving God’s will by striking out in unreasoning hatred. God’s people do not stain their hands with blood, nor is it fitting that the death of any human should be wreaked in anger. Those who style themselves ‘The Sword of God’ are not His servants, but destroyers of all He teaches, and their—”
Stevens snarled and killed the HD, sickened that he’d once respected that … that— He couldn’t think of a foul enough word.
He paced slowly, and his eyes warmed with an ugly light. Disgust and revulsion had driven him from the Church, but Hilgemann and those like her could never weaken God’s Sword. Their corruption only filled the true faithful with determination, and the Sword struck deeper every day.
As he had struck. The most terrifying—and satisfying—day of his life had been the one in which he realized why his cell had been sent against Vincente Cruz. The deaths of Cruz’s wife and children had bothered some of his people, yet God’s work required sacrifices, and if innocents perished, God would receive them as the martyrs they’d become. But that he had been the instrument which destroyed the heirs—heirs so corrupt they’d claimed a Narhani as a friend—had filled Stevens with exaltation.
There’d been other missions, but none so satisfying as that … or as the one he now looked forward to. It was time Francine Hilgemann learned God’s true chosen rejected her self-damning compromises with the Anti-Christ.
* * *
Sergeant Graywolf was calm-eyed and relaxed, for he knew how to wait. Especially when he awaited something so satisfying.
He didn’t know how the analysts had developed the intel. From the briefing, he suspected they’d intercepted a courier, but all that mattered was that they knew. With luck, they might even take one of the bastards alive. Daniel Graywolf was a professional, and he knew how valuable that could be … yet deep down inside, he hoped they wouldn’t be quite that lucky.
* * *
Stevens gave thanks for the rainy night. Its wet blackness wouldn’t bother Imperial surveillance systems, but the people behind those systems were only human. The dreary winter rain would have its effect where it mattered, dulling and slowing their minds.
Alice Hughes and Tom Mason walked arm-in-arm behind him like lovers, weapons hidden by their raincoats. Stevens carried his own weapon in a shoulder holster: an old-style automatic with ten-millimeter “slugs” of the same explosive used in grav guns. He didn’t see Yance or Pete, but they’d close in at the proper moment. He knew that, just as he knew Wanda Curry would bring their escape flyer in at precisely the right second. They’d practiced the operation for days, and their timing was exact.
His pulse ticked faster as he reached the high-rise. It was of Pre-Siege construction, but it had been modernized, and he paused under the force field roof protecting the front entrance. He wiped rain from his face with just the right gratitude for the respite while Alice and Tom closed up on his heels, and the corner of his eye saw Yance and Pete arriving from the opposite direction. The five of them came together by obvious coincidence, and then all of them turned and stepped through the entrance as one.
There were no security personnel in the lobby, only the automated systems he’d been briefed upon, and he paused in the entry, head bent to hide his features, shielding Yance and Pete as they reached under their coats. Then he stepped aside, and their suppressors rose with practiced precision and burned each scan point into useless junk with pulses of focused energy.
Stevens grunted, jerked the ski mask over his face, and snatched out his own weapon, and the well-drilled quintet raced for the transit shafts.
* * *
Graywolf stiffened at the implant signal. Clumsy, he thought with a hungry smile. Obviously their information had been less complete than they’d thought, for they’d missed three separate sensors.
Nine more Security Ministry agents stood as one behind nine closed doors as Graywolf cradled his hyper rifle and moved to the window.
* * *
Stevens led his followers from the transit shaft, and they spread out behind him, hugging the walls, weapons poised. His own eyes were fixed on the door at the end of the corridor, yet his attention roamed all about him, acute as a panther’s after so many months at the guerrilla’s trade.
They were half way down the hall when nine doors opened as one.
“Lay down your weapons!” a voice shouted. “You’re all under arr—”
Stevens spun like a cat. He heard Yance’s enraged bellow even as he tried to line up on the uniformed woman in the doorway, but his people’s reactions didn’t match their murderousness, for none were enhanced. His barking automatic blasted a chunk from the wall beside the door, and then a hurricane of grav gun darts blew all five terrorists into bloody meat.
* * *
Graywolf heard the thunder and shrugged. They’d had their chance.
He held his own position and watched the getaway flyer slide to a neat halt. It was right on the tick, and he aligned his hyper rifle on the drive housing before he triggered his com.
“Land and step out of the flyer!” he told the pilot.
There was a split-second pause, and then the flyer leapt ahead with blinding acceleration. But unlike Stevens’ killers, Graywolf was fully enhanced, and the exploding flyer gouged a fifty-meter trench in the street below as its drive unit vanished into hyper-space.
* * *
Lawrence Jefferson completed his report with profound satisfaction.
He’d never really been happy about penetrating security on Birhat. The distance was too great, and any communication with agents there was vulnerable to interception. But that was no longer necessary; his plans had matured to a point at which it no longer mattered what the military did, and he controlled Earth’s security forces from his own office.
His lips pursed as he considered his intertwining strategies. His latest ploy should remove Francine from any suspicion. She’d openly become the Church of the Armageddon’s leader, but as one who denounced the Sword of God’s fanaticism. Her masterful pleas for nonviolence only underscored the Sword’s growing ferocity, yet she was emerging as a moderate, and Horus and Ninhursag were obligingly accepting his own “astonished” conclusion that she was someone they could work with against the radicals.
Now his security forces’ defeat of the Sword’s attempt on her life would make her whiter than snow. He’d
wondered if he was being too clever, for it would never have done for any of Stevens’ people to be taken alive and disclose the truth about Imperial Terra, but he’d chosen his agents with care. All were utterly loyal to the Imperium … but each had lost friends or family to the Sword. He was certain they’d tried to take the terrorists alive—and equally certain they hadn’t tried any harder than they had to. And, of course, he’d known he could trust Stevens’ fanatics to resist.
He was just as happy to have that loose end tied, for Ninhursag’s decision to flood Earth with ONI agents worried him, especially since he didn’t know why she was doing it. Her official explanation might be the truth, for reinforcing Earth Security and opening a double offensive against the Sword made sense. He didn’t like it, but it did make sense. Yet he wasn’t quite convinced that was her real motive. At first he’d been afraid she was somehow onto him, but five months had passed since she’d started, and if he had, indeed, been her objective, he’d be in custody by now.
Whatever she was up to, it enforced greater circumspection upon him. Since taking over from Gus, Jefferson had found it expedient to make adjustments in certain background investigations, culling his own cadre of fully-enhanced personnel from the Ministry of Security itself. It was so convenient to have the government enhance his people for him, but Ninhursag’s swarm of busybodies had forced a temporary shutdown in such activities.
Not that it worried him too much. His plans were in place, centered upon the crown jewels of his subversions: Brigadier Alex Jourdain and Lieutenant Carl Bergren. Jourdain’s high position in Earth Security made him invaluable as Jefferson’s senior field man and cutout, but Bergren was even more important. That lowly officer was the key, for he was a greedy young man with expensive habits. How Battle Fleet had ever let him into uniform, much less placed him in such a sensitive position, passed Jefferson’s understanding, but he supposed even the best screening processes had to fail occasionally. He himself had stumbled upon Bergren almost by accident, and he’d taken pains to conceal Bergren’s … indiscretions, for thanks to Lieutenant Bergren, Admiral Ninhursag MacMahan had just over five months to do whatever she was doing before she died.